Fall of Liberty
by Orwell's Nightmare
Summary: Air sirens sound. Paratroopers blot out the sun. The Soviet invasion of the United States begins...  Chronicles the story of GWIII in RA II.
1. Landing Point Marx

1. Location: Landing point _Marx_

Red Dawn 

0100

"Helium mix optimal," Vladimir mumbled into the microphone. Outside, clouds brushed against the side of his massive _Kirov_ class zeppelin cruiser as it chugged along sluggishly through the night sky. Airship division three, unit seven had already been travelling over the Atlantic for several days from its base in Stalingrad; though the trip by airplane would've taken a day and a half at most, the Kirov's mass alone was enough to halt its speed to a barely noticable crawl; if not for the gargantuan industrial-grade propellers aft, the ship wouldn't be moving at all.

The ship's payload of several tons of iron bombs didn't help matters, either.

"Proceed to predetermined contact zone within five hours. Landing point _Marx_."

"Moving," Vladimir replied curtly, dropping the speaker back into its slot on the control panel. The ships had maintained radio silence for almost a week now. It was almost time...

0200

The clouds around him began to acquire a rosy hue, and squinting off into the distance through the windows behind his control cabin, Vladimir could make out a spark of yellow. Dawn was approaching; they would have to hurry. He picked up the speaker system again, this time pressing the button labeled "Ship Intercom".

"Wake the crew."

Buzzers began sounding near the back of the ship, in the crew quarters, and Vladimir heard the shuffling as sleepy crew members began shuffling out of bed to relieve the night watch; ironically, Vladimir, as captain, got the least sleep out of them all.

0300

A faint hissing noise was heard as the auxillary air packets on the side of the Kirov's enormous air envelope began to bulge with additional Helium. The rotors began to whirl loudly as the ship picked up speed, and the sea below began to froth as waves surged forth below...

0400

"Coffee, captain?" Lieutenant Tolstoy asked, grinning broadly as he thrust a steaming mug onto Vladimir's map table (while several drops spilled on the captain's charts). "Courtesy of our fine brothers-in-arms from Cuba."

Vladimir put down his pencil and accepted the cup, sipping appreciatively as he wiped the sleep from his eyes with a pencil lead-stained hand. By his calculations, they should arrive on time- early even.

0500

"When are we arriving?"

"As planned. You up to the job, Lieutenant?"

Leo flashed his trademark grin, his palladium-grade teeth showing white through several days' worth of military rations. "As always, sir." His reputation as "the Lion" was well deserved; there were rumors that Lieutenant Leo had been promoted to this post from the Soviet Union's prestigious Apocalypse Tank Division. A good person to watch your back.

Vladimir grunted. "Good." Too much enthusiasm, this one. Just give them some time.

0600

Light brings life. With the dawn, the ship began to awaken. Tramping feet were heard as crew members rushed to their posts.

"Bombadiers, to your stations!" Vladimir roared into the speaker, the pilots furiously turning dials and pushing levers as the ship neared its destination.

The bomb bay groaned as its steel covering slid open, allowing light to touch once more the rows upon rows of gleaming bombs aligned in its racks.

The airship burst through its surrounding cloudbank, and the dawning sunlight revealed the entire scene, a moving kaleidoscope of color from the panoramic view of the Kirov's viewports:

The giant host of dreadnoughts sitting in the bay, gleaming and invincible; the smaller scorpion escort ships, darting between the floating behemoths; the streaking contrails as cruise missiles rose up in one volley, and then another- streaking below the Kirov and exploding on their targets in tremendous, fiery conflagrations, superimposed upon the backdrop of the hazy skyline in the distance.

The green, outstretched arm crumbled, copper and dust falling as the torch-bearing limb fell down, the sea parting to receive it.

The buzz of engines as transport planes glided smoothly overhead, paratroopers scattering from their cargo bays like seeds; their parachutes, blossoming into existence on the bright blue sky like dandelions.

The enormous shadows cast over the Soviet fleet as Kirovs- hundreds, thousands of them- gathering about a single spot, as if a giant, invisible hand had drawn a giant circle around a point and were towing them in on invisible strings, like toys; the giant hammer and sickle emblazoned across the sturdy canvas, the red paint catching the glare from the rising sun...

Air warning sirens began to ring across the still- groggy city, calling to each other like terrified birds.

Vladimir grinned. They had arrived: landing point _Marx_- but the capitalists called it...

...New York City.


	2. Drive Friendly The Texas Way

2. Locaton: Somewhere on the Mexico-US Border

Drive Friendly- the Texas Way

"HAHAHAHAA!" Corporal Leo roared as he thrust the lever in a direction Private Ivan Fyodorovitch didn't think to be humanly possible. The engine responded in kind as the juggernaut rammed its way forward, the flimsy steel fence crumpling before the buttress of the mighty apocalypse tank as if it were made of tin foil. "WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA" was crushed under its heavy treads.

Private Ivan grabbed onto the steel beam bolted to the panel in front of him as the tank began to rumble over the rough Texan terrain, Coporal Leo maniacally cackling to himself while he steered the Apocalypse over entire patches of cacti, the stinging nettles making crackling sounds as it nestled into the cracks of the tank's steel treads.

Private Ivan dared a glimpse out of the Apocalypse's narrow viewing port. He had originally volunteered for transfer to the Apocalypse divisions because they had a widespread reputation throughout the Soviet Army as being prestigious, powerful, and relatively safer and more comfortable than Rhino Tanks. Ivan had hoped to sit in relative safety and comfort, acting as onboard gunner and engineer; he had _not_ volunteered to sit in a sweltering, claustrophobic metal cabin- right next to several crates of highly volatile ammunition- and under the command of a Corporal whose sanity was questionable. Ivan leaned back into whatever space he had and tried to close his eyes, the migraine he had recently acquired throbbing inside his skull. This was so much worse than when they had been stationed in Mexico, he thought. 

"This is SO MUCH BETTER than when we had been stationed in Mexico!" Corporal Leo roared as he floored the accelerator. Several crunches were heard underneath as the Apocalypse gunned over an annihilated Allied Grizzly tank. Ivan hoped that the sounds were rocks. But then, rocks didn't scream...

The Apocalypse finally broke through the desert and emerged onto a derelict interstate, scattered with the burning hulks and carcasses of burned out cars and tanks. The tank's hardened treads clattered against the burning asphalt as it rolled forward.

Peering back, Ivan caught a glimpse of the remainder of their armored division; two battle-scarred flak traks escorted another apocalypse, which appeared to be in much better shape than theirs, and a small taskforce of five rhino tanks.

Ivan, sweating and puffing, wrestled open the gunner's hatch and popped out, his lungs greedily taking in the fresh (but dry) Texas air. Four long, thin clouds streaked overhead...

Wait. Those weren't-

The four-plane Harrier squadron dove down for the kill, their jet engines screaming like the cry of enraged banshees. With a puff of smoke, they released their payload at the first flak trak, utterly destroying it.

Whilst the other flak cannon swiveled over to engage the harriers, the Apocalypse's computerized missile targeting system was already coordinating its first salvo. The heat-seaking mini SAMs streaked towards the lead Harrier, detonating simultaneously just below its left wing tip. With a tremendous explosion and screech of tearing metal, the Harrier's wing was brutally pulled from the fuselage. It staggered, trailing smoke, as the pilot struggled for control...

Ivan watched the three clouds streak away.

Leo popped up next to him, a sadistic grin on his smoke-smudged face. "Well, that was fun!"

"Unit lost," came the stoic voice over the comm unit. "New Objective received."

Ivan groaned as he leaned down to peer at the radar screen. "It appears that the remaining Resistance forces have barricaded themselves in a little plaza off to our left. Prepare to engage."

The armored column came to a small roadside gas station, with a large metal sign out front:

"WELCOME TO TEXAS: DRIVE SAFELY- THE TEXAS WAY."

The front door of the gas station suddenly burst open. An old man dressed in a faded flannel shirt and tattered blue jeans stumbled out, his bony hands clutching an ancient shotgun.

"God bless America!" he screeched, firing off a round of buckshot that pinged harmlessly off the Apocalypse's thick armor.

The ironclad behemoth rumbled forward, crushing the sign underneath. Its giant turret swivelled around to bear upon the old man as he stumbled away, dropping the shotgun in hast; both cannons simultaneously let out an earth-shattering blast.

The Corporal grinned.

Let them believe the gods are on their side. We have the tanks on ours.


	3. Rockets in the Sky

3. Air Force Academy Chapel, Colorado Springs, Colorado

Rockets in the Sky

Wing Squadron Chief Vinya sat back on the hardened concrete of her bunk and closed her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since the start of her "stay". Combing through her scraggly hair, Vinya stood up and stretched like a cat, yawning noisily.

"You think we getting out o' here, Chief?" Vinya rapidly dropped her eyes to avoid meeting the penetrating gaze of her lieutenant, Julius. "I heard one of the guards mentionin' the name of _Tanya_..."

Vinya straightened up at the name. If anyone could get them out of this mess, the elite Allied commando was the most likely candidate.

Turning back to her cell, she unceromoniously dumped the stained crate labeled, in blockish letters, VODKA onto her bunk. Clambering on top, she peered out through the miniscule window that was the only source of light in her tiny prison, squinting from the white glare of snow outside.

The airfield was still there, the Harriers still perfectly dovetailed on their respective landing pads. Damn- the Reds had't even bothered to take out the fuel hoses, which were now leaking jet-black fluid onto the tarmac; the rocket pods, she could see from the blinking lights, were still armed. Grunting from the strain, Vinya laboriously settled down from her observation post and quickly chucked the vodka crate back into its musty corner, in case the Soviets happened to discover her clandestine stepping stool.

At least the treaty after WWII had done _something_, at least; though the USSR Air Force had easily circumvented the ban on fighter aircraft by constructing massive zeppelin bombers, the lack of anything faster than a Tu-16 meant that their Air Force lacked suitable fighter pilots. Vinya grinned to herself. The last surviving Soviet fighter jocks from Great War II- MiG pilots, probably- would be old men by now. The Harriers were left intact because, frankly, the Soviets just couldn't fly them. If only she were in the cockpit of her bird right now, the remnant of the Soviet garrison left to guard the prisoners and defend the Air Force base wouldn't stand a chance. But then she thought of the flak cannons that had recently been constructed alongside the fortress perimeter, and her confidence was blown away like fallen leaves by the chilly Colorado wind howling outside the window. Not to mention the small problem of her cell door...

Vinya's head jerked up alongside with the other imprisoned pilots as a dull _BOOM_ was heard outside. Tossing the crate back on, she stared outside.

One of the sentry guns that had recently been set up to cover the base's checkpoint had just exploded into a pile of smoking metal and shrapnel. Overhead, several white blips zoomed ahead, firing madly at the fleeing Soviet conscripts diving for cover below. Allied Rocketeers! But what about the flak cannons?

Vinya turned her head. A group of smarter Reds had already thought up of that idea, and were running a marathon to get to the flak cannon located at the center of the base; Vinya stared in wonder as their heads, which had been puffing smoke into the freezing air outside, suddenly erupted like grapefruits into splatters of blood and bone. She breathed out slowly. "What in the world was-"

"Locked and loaded!" The voice came from outside, as a slim form cunningly hidden in arctic camoflauge smoothly detached itself from a nearby snowbank. A young female commando came into view, her fur-lined gloves clutching two gleaming Colt pistols. "Here's a present for ya!"

Vinya turned as footsteps clunked down the stairway leading to the detention block, expecting her savior to appear at the door at any minute. She shrunk back into her corner as a conscript burst through the door, hastily aiming the barrel of his AK assault rifle at her forehead.

Just as the conscript's finger tightened around the trigger, the door burst open again as an Allied GI strode through the doorway, the MP-5 jerking in his hands. The conscript's body danced and fell in a heap.

"Well, what have we here?" The GI grinned as he pivoted to point the rifle at Julius' cell door. The lock sparked and burst off, and the Lieutenant walked out triumphantly, holding his arms high in victory.

"To the birds!" he shouted, dashing out of the hallway to the waiting landing pad.

Vinya's door burst open too, and she ran out onto the airfield. Her bird was still there, the Maverick missile rocket pods glinting dully in the morning sun. They would sure brighten up with a few kill markings painted on...

Vinya clambered in, checking her radio. Still operational. She pressed the button and raised it to her mouth.

"Pilot reporting. This is V-One. Alright, who's there?"

"V-Two Reportin'." Julius.

"V-Three, I'm here!" That was Grub, one of the "fresh meats" straight out of flying school. He wasn't going to steal any kill markings from _her_...

"V-Four. Now I know this place _really_ sucks." Vanya groaned internally. Dubbed "the Serpent" in the squad for his renowned cynicism, Kim had transferred over to the Harrier squad from the elite Korean Black Eagles. Thought it was, from a political standpoint, a promotion, Kim had never quite accepted being stuck in the Midwestern United States piloting what he had called (with some asperity) "crappy pieces of junk."

"All here, then. Prepare for takeoff. We have 'em on radar: target location coordinates 14.15-92.65. Thrusters engaged."

The Harriers streaked off like arrows, leaving hazy vapor in their wake. Vanya peered out of her cockpit as Tanya whooped triumphantly below, forcefully pumping her fist in the air. The base (which had been recaptured by airdropped Allied Engineers) and Tanya shrunk rapidly like toys as the jet formation gained altitude and sped away.

"We're almost there. Radio silence," Vanya murmured softly into her microphone. They were approaching.

The cloudbank abruptly ended, and the jets' canopies glared like stars. The afterburners engaged as the diamond formation neatly banked left, the lights on the missile pods blinking rapidly as the pilots flipped several letters rapidly. Large red letters glowed on the cockpit display: MISSILES ARMED.

"We're goin' in." The Harriers streaked toward earth as the Soviet supply base below expanded at a dizzying speed from mere specks of sand- to toys- to dwarfs- to-

"Get outta _my_ state, Commie," Vanya hissed as the squeezed the button. The aircraft bucked as a salvo of missiles erupted, several lines of smoke speeding towards a Tesla Generator. In a shower of sparks and an explosion from several carelessly placed fuel barrels in the vicinity, the generator exploded, leaving a smoking crater in its wake. Faint shouts were heard from below as the shrill air siren and dull _thud_s of flak cannons were abruptly cut off. Defenses offline.

"Changing vector." The Harriers made a neat half turn as it sped off into the horizon, to a brighter future- and an imminent victory.


	4. C4 Knocking at Your Door I

Operation: Bringers of Light

Location: Somewhere off the Yucatan Peninsula, secret Soviet Research Facility

The sentry paced slowly on the barricades, the dull thud of his Red Army-regulation boots muffled by the dense floorboards. His AK assault rifle was casually slung over his back, the magazine tapping lightly against the back of his heavy coat with every faint wisps of smoke from his cigarette rose and faded into the sky like forgotten wraiths, its heavy stench failing to mask the pungent odor of vodka that spilled out of the conscript's mouth. 

He ambled over to an intersection and casually leaned his hand on the cold stone, trying to regain his balance without appearing too obviously drunk to his Commanding Officer, who was staring up at him from the Sentry Gun post below. The sentry paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from under his woolen hat, cursing under his breath and wondering how _any_ imbecile, even if he was from the administrative division of the Red Army, could be stupid enough to order heavy winter uniforms as standard wear in Mexico. _Mexico_. Not Moscow. Not St. Petersburg. Not Antarctica, and the sentry took another puff of his cigarette

If his mind hadn't been clouded with alcohol that night, if the searchlights had been a bit dimmer, if the dense undergrowth of the tropical jungle around him hadn't absorbed so much sound, maybe the sentry could've heard the faint drone of engines overhead. If he had bothered to look up and scan the sky, maybe he could've seen the shadow that flitted across the sky overhead, or the black blossoms that bloomed and then disappeared under the treeline.

The Hercules C-130 transport craft had taken off from an air base on the southern tip of Florida. Its engines had been custom-designed so that their roar was diminished into a faint purr, its smooth exterior painted in gray paint designed to deflect radar and (hopefully) fool flak cannon sensors. A number of VTOL's equipped with JDAMS accompanied it, ready to engage if necessary. The cargo the Hercules carried was similarly unique, consisting of several of the meanest, toughest Navy SEALs in the country.

Seal Team Seven was barely briefed on the mission: get into the base. frag em' and bag em'. Get the hell outta Dodge. Insertion by HALO jump, extraction by Nighthawk. It was simple. Easy, even.

But then again, nothing was easy, Seal One, "KillJoy", brooded to himself. He checked over the safety mechanism of his Heckler and Koch submachine gun one more time before inserting a fresh ammunition clip from the unending supply on his belt. With a gloved fist, he waved impatiently at his colleagues- if that term could be used- to prepare for insertion. The commandos were all similarly dressed, in camoflouged wetsuits with airtight ammo packs and C4 blocks strapped to their chests. Killjoy glanced at his watch. 0300. Insertion time. The light turned on.

Red light: The doors opened further, and warning lights began flashing throughout the cramped cockpit. Red light: The Seals conducted a last minute check of their equipment. Red light.

Green light.

"Go! Go! GO!" The first Seal stepped up, his footsteps echoing in the cramped space of the cockpit. The others looked at him expectantly.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The footsteps quickened, and the doors opened, revealing the black maw of night to receive him.

Thudthudthudthudthudthud- 

And he was gone, into the abyss, the vacuum. A faint _plop_ was heard as the parachute deployed. The next Seal stepped up, his footsteps echoing in the cramped space of the cockpit. The others looked at him expectantly...

The Controller looked over the conglomerate of computer screens spread before him, offering a comprehensive (and panoramic) view of the operation. Somewhere in the jungle of processing units, a light blinked on and the printer beeped.

The Controller reached a coffee-stained paw out to catch the white stream as it flowed from the printing slot, curling gracefully, neatly, into his palm. He scanned the pages casually, his eyes flicking across the paper like shadows- then stopped at the last line.

FINAL_DATA:_OPERATIONSUNGOD_091484_PRTY:_ALPHASIX  
>GO?_RESPOND_YESNO

His hands stretched out to the keyboard that culminated from the spiderweb of wires that spilled out from the machines, into others, onto the floor. His fingers, the slightest twitchings of which would decide the fate of men's lives and quite possible the fate of a nation, curled reflexively over the buttons and paused.

He typed- three letters.

Three floors above and two doors to the left, Lieutenant Eva shuffled the briefing that had appeared in the broadcasting room and pressed the TRANSMIT button at the bottom of her video screen.

"Commander? Operation Sun God is a go. Eva out."


	5. C4 Knocking at Your Door II

Lt. First Class Eva Lee of Allied Joint Command tapped a few buttons on the keyboard in front of her- instinctively, really- bringing up the familiar face of the One and Only Allied Commander operating in the eastern U.S. This one- now, _this one_- was good, Eva mused. Never lost a battle before, several decorations for valor in undertaking several crucial missions, recapturing strategic military objectives from the Reds. The list wound on- New York City, Colorado Springs, Pearl Harbor, St. Louis, Chicago... 

An undefeated battlefield commander.

Eva looked up.

"Commander, the Soviets captured one of our west coast bases- and with it, one of our Prism Towers. We believe they may be trying to replicate that technology at a secret Soviet research facility in the Yucatan. A SEAL strike team is standing by, Commander, awaiting your orders."

She tapped a few more keys with a trained hand, expertly zooming in on an Allied SAT-CON photo of what appeared to be a Mayan pyramid outfitted, bizarrely, with a "Sovietized" version of an Allied prism tower. The eponymous outward-facing prisms that released those deadly lightbeams had been replaced by awkward-looking concave mirrors, quite possibly to compensate for the Soviets' improficiency in laser engineering. It didn't look like the Soviet engineers were going to make any progress with the tower design, but just in case they did...

"Blow it up," Eva murmured before cutting the transmission.

The five figures touched down into the night jungle, their parachutes collapsing in a heap about them. Cutting themselves free, the SEALs headed off into the jungle, where the dim lights of the Soviet fortress were still visible above the treeline. The head SEAL signaled for the others to stop and drop down once they reached the top of a small hill that overlooked the fortress.

"Got two tangos in the towers, one on the far left, and the other on the other side of the small shed just beyond the gate. Over," the lead SEAL whispered into his headset. The two SEALs behind him started to unpack their SVDs, setting up the bipods, and aimed through their scopes, waiting for orders to fire. 

"One of you take out the one on the left, the other that one beyond the gate. Drop 'em simultaneously, we don't need any attention or unwanted visitors."

"3".

The SEALs adjusted their scopes.

"2".

The sentry was in sight now, the barrel of his AK gleaming dully in the light from the guard towers. A plume of cigarette smoke rose steadily from his position.

"1".

Two fingers twitched and tightened on the triggers. And squeezed.

The sentries dropped with the faintest of sounds that were beyond human hearing. The snipers disassembled their bipods, slung the rifles over their backs, and continued on downhill under the cover of the impenetrably dense undergrowth, careful to avoid the moonlight and that occasional pesky spotlight.

The SEALs regrouped at the gate of the compound, cautious not to make any excess noise, as there were a couple of angry, sleepy, and possibly drunken men on the other side of the gate with guns, and everyone knew what happened to people who got too comfortable around _those _types of guys.

The SEALS squatted in the dirt and waited for the Chief to say something. The team was briefed extensively on the fortress defenses prior to the mission, but what those geniuses at the CIA _hadn't_ taken into account was that the beachfront, where the only gap in the fortress' walls were located, happened to be occupied by several mechanized ore harvesters. Armed with chainguns...

"Got a plan, Chief?"

"You know what, Killjoy? SHUT UP. I got _no_ time for your smart-ass crap."

The SEALS looked at their leader expectantly. Chief, unable to meet their gaze, glanced wildly at the nearby perimeter wall. More of a fence, really... brittle, dry wood that had been chopped down from the surrounding rain forest... a Rhino tank supply depot nearby, a few rusting oil drums...

Oil drums?

Chief clapped his teammates on the shoulder. "Alright, boys, listen up- here's the plan..."

The sentry's cigarette smoldered faintly as he leaned back in his chair. "Goddamn guard duty," he thought. "Stuck in a stupid tower- without even fighting around- guarding some dumb experiment from the Ministry of Defense that would probably get scrapped anyway..."

He began to dream of home, in Vladivostok. News was, there was recently a naval attack near his town, but that had been repelled by the navy. Now _there's_ some action, he thought. And then they'd celebrate with dance and a huge roast... He could almost spell the musky fume of the bonfire...

The sentry sniffed again. Wait a minute, That wasn't campfire...

The oil drums erupted as the heavy gunner, "Fatso", burst into the compound, SAW blazing. The flames had already inundated the portion ahead, leaving a gaping hole that the SEALs proceeded to charge through. The fires were already beginning to lick at further portions of the wall, greedily consuming any dried wood in reach.

The poor schmuck unfortunate enough to be on guard duty was blown to Kingdom Come- but then again, the Commies didn't believe in Heaven. Whoops. Ignoring the sudden, earsplitting sirens, Fatso tore through the compound, taking as little cover as possible, stopping as little as possible, and heading towards the one destination in mind... as fast as possible.

Fatso looked up at the looming Mayan pyramid.

"This should provide some cover," he thought aloud as he slid behind a sandbag. Tipping his head out precariously to search for enemies, Fatso spotted a group of four conscripts rushing toward his position. His hand was a blur as he pulled a grenade out, pulled the pin, and chucked the live pineapple with all his might at the goons.

"Short of 'insane',there really doesn't seem to be any word to describe this," Killjoy shouted to a nearby SEAL as he fired his AN-94 in the general direction of the guards behind cover. "But don't tell Chief that- he'd blow my brains out."

The remaining SEAL team sprinted past the decoy squad, crouching in the shadow of the ominous- looking pyramid structure. Chief grinned as he produced packs of C4 explosive from his omnipresent ammo stash, gleefully distributing them among his comrades like a parent giving away candy.

Fatso and Killjoy were doing a pretty good job of providing cover; Chief saw a flood of half- dressed, even unarmed conscripts stumbling blindly towards the sound of gunfire. Idiots. Another group was attempting to set up a nearby tank, but a few well-placed shots from the Chief's silenced firearm saw to _them_.

Individual shadows separated themselves and merged seamlessly into the shadows of the Soviet base.

In the Soviet Ore Refinery, the metallic clanking of machines could be heard every second, every hour, every day. The process of gaining profit had streamlined itself to the point of perfect efficiency, to the point that no snippet of time, no grain of resource, was ever wasted from its ultimate utility to achieve _the_ purpose. The gears clanked and slid and moved, groaning in their places like tortured slaves. Never ceasing, never faltering, they turned... and turned...

And exploded.

Matchstick stood outside the ruins of what had once been the Soviets' main source of revenue, tossing the demolitions controller from one hand to the other. Well, well. This beats the fourth of July fireworks any day.

"One down, five to go," he muttered, disappearing- once again- into the darkness.


	6. C4 Knocking at Your Door III

SEAL "Chief" was having a helluva day. Or night. Or predawn twilight. He'd already blown up two tesla reactors, which had exploded with particularly entertaining hissing sounds and electrocuted nearby conscripts like lab rats. The war factory had been next. Apparently, even the might of Soviet industrialization was no match to several packages of well placed C4. Seals one, Soviets zero.

The power had gone offline quite a while ago, so what had remained of the base defenses were either utterly destroyed or nonfunctional due to their fatal dependence on electricty. Several idiotic tesla troopers had attempted to power up the remaining tesla towers with their portable tesla cannons, offering prime targets for SEAL snipers. All that remained were a few ragged and defeated- looking conscripts, huddling together to be picked off by SEAL fire or charging blindly towards Fatso's holding point.

Chief snapped out a pair of binoculars and inspected the clump of suspiscious- looking dots he had noticed earlier on the horizon line. Now that the sun had risen and the dots had grown bigger, he could make them out as Soviet amphibious transports. Reinforcements. Bad.

"Alright, team! Form up!" Chief called to the rest of his squad. "Enemy reinforcements are inbound and will approach the beachhead at approximately 0530. That leaves us half an hour to blow the rest of this place to hell, kill every living soul within, and get the hell outta Dodge! I'm calling for Nighthawk extraction right now. MOVE IT!"

Fatso hurriedly ducked back into the safety of the shadows and sandbags, with lead cracking around his head, hitting the back wall and making a quarter-sized holes. He reloaded his SAW as he shouted to Killjoy over the earsplitting roar of small-arms fire.

"I don't think we can hold out any longer! I'm running out of ammunition as fast as your ex-girlfriend ran out on yo- dammit!"

Fatso cursed as a bullet barreled into his shoulder with the pain of a red-hot poker. Blood started caressing down his arm in rivers, melding sluggishly in with the soil. Killjoy rushed over to Fatso's position, blind-firing around the sandbags, and took out some gauze from his pouch. He began wrapping a tourniquet roughly around Fatso's arm.

"Karma's a bitch, ain't it," yelled Killjoy wryly. "Anyway, you're right, we _are _running out of ammo pretty quickly, but we gotta wait for Chief and the others to finish the primary objectives, and _then _we can tuck tail and run!"

As if on cue, there was a deafening sound of C4 detonation, and a massive fireball went up into the sky, splattering the heavens with sloppy paintstrokes of red and orange.

"There they go!" Killjoy exclaimed as he triggered some C4 on some oil barrels, incinerating the conscripts behind them.

Matchstick smiled devishly as he tossed the C4 clacker onto the heaping pile of burning ash that stood where a building once had. He wasted no time and started heading for the fourth building; the others would take care of the third. Making his way through the maze of buildings and alleyways, he came to an opening that was suspiciously mute, with only bursts of gunfire coming from the main area of the compound. He crept cautiously to the corner of a wall and leaned out to meet head on the gleaming turret of a Rhino tank.

"Holy crap! They even have a-" the transmission cut out in Chief's headset with a brief burst of static as he exchanged fire with hostiles close to the third target.

"Matchstick? You there?! Matchstick! Come in! God-dammit!" the Chief screamed into his headset over the drone of his H&K. "Guys! We got a man down, I repeat, we got a man down. He encountered something big, so keep your eyes peeled!"

"These guys' numbers are lessening dramatically, are we really steamrolling over them that bad?" Hawk feathered the trigger of his SVD and sent a bullet into the spine of a man running for cover, severing his cervical and causing his legs to buckle out from under him. As he looked through the scope, surveying targets, he spotted a couple of tangos motioning for the others to follow, and they proceeded to duck behind the safety of the building near them, with the rest following suit- but Hawk made sure that most of them didn't escape.

"Chief! They're falling back!" Hawk yelled to the Chief.

"I know, I know! I don' t like this! Knowing the Commies, they aren't ones to give up easily. Hawk, give me your binos!"

Hawk lobbed his binoculars to the Chief. He caught them, careful not to drop them, and peered through.

"Jeez, this is getting suspicious, you wouldn't think they would have a-" Chief was cut off as the glint of steel plating caught his eye.

The turret rotated.


End file.
